Aftermath
by redtoes
Summary: When you've accomplished everything you set out to do in life by 18 what's left? Harry and Hermione deal with the repercussions of Ron's death, Voldemort's defeat and the peace that follows the war. Please readreview.
1. Chapter 1

Harry Potter: Aftermath  
  
Author's note: ANGST ALERT. Seriously, I do not jest. Character death and depression features heavily.  
  
Author's note 2: This fic was supposed to be the first in a series of post- war vignettes featuring the HP crew, but somehow when I got to the end of this one, I just didn't have that much more to say. Huh. I still have the other stories and a bit of a continuation for this one outlined but need some good encouragement to finish this as well as "Dark Days" - let me know what you think and if I get enough good reviews maybe I'll get around to finishing this.  
  
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all associated characters are the property of JK Rowling, not me.  
  
For: Dave. As an apology for dragging him into the world consuming hobby of fanfic to be my Beta. Sorry mate. I love you really ;-)  
  
Aftermath  
  
By Redtoes  
  
She didn't stop crying for nearly a month after it happened. It made Harry so worried he approached Dumbledore, disturbing the former headmaster's peaceful retirement in search of aid. The advice, when it came, was the same as all the rest - give her time.  
  
Time.  
  
For what else did she have now, with Ron, her husband, dead by the hand of his enemy mere days after she had worn white and sworn 'til death do us part? Death had come too soon for him.  
  
Death had come too soon for too many. Her hurt was one amongst thousands, millions. Death had come, in its flowing robes and snake-like face. With its anagrammed name and spitting hatred. Then Death was gone. Defeated by the same blow that had cost him all at Harry's cot so many years before. Or not.  
  
Even now, a month after the death of Death, the death of Voldemort, Hermione wasn't quite sure of the how, as much as she was of the when. One month. The 30 days that marked June through to July.  
  
It would be Harry's birthday soon, she thought absently. They would have to find a present, maybe she and Ron -  
  
Reality crashed back. Ron. Ron was dead. Gone. Killed by Death.  
  
But Death was dead too. Wasn't that a trade off of sorts?  
  
She refrained from answering the unspoken question in everyone's eyes. Would you not have given your life to see the world safe? Would you not have given his?  
  
Yes, she said silently, and No.  
  
But what does it matter when he's dead already.  
  
Nothing.  
  
Except that -  
  
Except -  
  
Except that a child should know their parents. Both of them.  
  
Her mind pushed up the example of Harry, bereft of both mother and father from before he could remember. He's done okay, defeated a Dark Lord and all that.  
  
But he shouldn't have had to, she thinks, he should have been raised happy, safe, beloved. He shouldn't have had to face the dark alone.  
  
But he wasn't, the obstinate part of her mind answers, he had you. He had Ron. You and Ron.  
  
It's not the same! But she doesn't push the point, realising that the down side of arguing with oneself is that you never win the battle.  
  
Hermione lies back on their bed, their bed. It was his before, his longer, and they only shared it for a few nights, but it'll always be their bed. Or maybe it's hers. His. Hers. Theirs.  
  
She feels the familiar prickle of tears in the corner of her eyes. There hasn't been an hour since she hasn't felt them. They're almost a comfort in these hard times.  
  
Though there are more comforting things, she thinks, pressing her palms against her abdomen. There's no rise yet, nothing to show, nothing to see, but she knows.  
  
She's late, but she knew before. She could fancy she'd always known, but that would be disingenuous, *lying*, the little voice that is Ron corrects, *why do always have to make things more complicated?* he adds with a tease in his voice.  
  
She smiles a little through the familiar tears.  
  
She likes that she's hears that voice, or, at least, voices like it seeping through the floorboards and thin walls of the Burrow. But she hates the way they creep around, so fearful of her grief that they've put aside their own. She hates the worry lines on Ginny's forehead and the uncharacteristic silence falls all too often, crushing the family. Mrs Weasley tends home without mirth, bereft of two sons by war and one by self- imposed exile, for the remaining twin has left, half his soul having perished with his brother too long before. And while she fusses over Harry the way she's always done, there's an undercurrent of pain, of anguish that taints the relief that this one didn't die.  
  
Mr Weasley's caught up in the restructuring, overworked and overtired, catching what sleep he can in the office. Bill helps him there, Hermione has heard, the eldest Weasley having resigned his war commission to aid his father. She wonders how he got the idea, who placed that seed in his head. Ron was going to do that, he'd talked loudly about what he would do afterwards, after it all, he was going to follow his father, and she would be proud he'd said, she would be proud.  
  
She'd tried to tell him she how proud she already was, but he'd needed more. She'd had the brains, the knowledge. Harry, the legacy left in a scar. Ron had always seen himself as less, somehow less. As if chess skills and unwavering loyalty were somehow less worthy than her ability to regurgitate facts from musty books.  
  
She'd always been proud.  
  
He never believed her.  
  
Maybe his son would.  
  
Hermione pondered this for a second - how did she know? She couldn't explain it. She was carrying his son, his child, his life inside her.  
  
And she knew it.  
  
Palms flat on her stomach, she gazed up at the ceiling from the blankets and pillows of Ron's bed.  
  
It's been a month  
  
******  
  
It's been a month.  
  
A month of peace, of quiet. A month of funerals and in memorium's and too many emotions ripped at the sight of coffins.  
  
He never liked this month. These months. June. July.  
  
The end of school, the return to Privet Drive, the hollow emptiness of celebrating your birthday alone. Not that he's ever had any birthday that wasn't alone, but rather that he'd watched people - the Dursleys, kids at school, his classmates at Hogwarts - and realised that you weren't meant to be alone on this of all days.  
  
He'd never liked July.  
  
June hadn't been too bad. Sure Voldemort had risen (three times in his first four years of Hogwarts) around this time, but after that he'd been more of a constant worry than at the end of the school year and somehow June had lost any negative aspects it had once held.  
  
After all the memories of a long ago June had little to compare it to the horror of watching your classmates turn against you on a cold November day. Or hearing the news that you had to leave your one home, Hogwarts, in the beginning of March because it just wasn't safe for the other students. Or watching your best friend die -  
  
*He's dead, Harry*  
  
- die because of you.  
  
Harry curled his fists, feeling the familiar pain of the nails settling into their usual cuts in his skin. Hermione used to scold him for this, asking how he'd ever heal if he insisted in digging his fingernails through the scabs they'd caused the day before. He used to ignore her.  
  
Involuntarily he looked to the kitchen ceiling. She was upstairs now. Lying on Ron's bed.  
  
She hadn't said anything for days, even when he'd sat beside her and cheerfully discussed something, anything that came to mind.  
  
Their wedding.  
  
He'd told all about the stag night - the incredibly diminished stag night, because you don't go out drinking when there's a Dark Lord after you head, it doesn't matter who's getting married. So he, and Ron, and Fred and George and a few others had planned their night, shared a three bottles of butter-beer between seven men and planned what they would do when this was over. Described in detail what humiliation they would make Ron suffer as revenge for the bad timing of his wedding, putting it smack bang in the middle of a war so they couldn't humiliate him in public like he damn well deserved.  
  
When things had quietened, Harry had turned to his friend, his brother and asked in no uncertain terms if he knew what he was doing.  
  
"'Course mate" came the slightly addled reply, the bridegroom high on life rather than the tiny amount of butter-beer he'd consumed. "I love her."  
  
Harry had snorted at this, he remembered.  
  
"Love her? Ron you worship her, you always have"  
  
"Ha!" Disbelief coloured his tone.  
  
"Everyone knew Ron."  
  
His best friend had fixed him with a stare at this.  
  
"Yeah, everyone knew apart from us" he'd replied "you could have dropped me a hint you know?"  
  
"I dropped you a million" retorted Harry "you were just too dense to pick them up."  
  
Ron had laughed, and Harry had laughed, and the night had dwindled down to tales from Hogwarts and shared smiles. Until -  
  
"You've got to promise me something Harry." Something in his tone had made Harry look up, suddenly serious, suddenly scared.  
  
"If something happens to me -"  
  
"Ron!" Harry had protested to no avail.  
  
"If something happens to me you'll take care of her."  
  
Harry had stared.  
  
"What" he'd said softly, "makes you think she'll let me?"  
  
Ron laughed at that. "Too true mate. But still. She'll need you."  
  
"She'll need you," Harry had insisted.  
  
"I know. Still."  
  
The teenagers had stared at each other, two boys who in any other time would be on the verge of manhood, not fighting a war that had aged them almost overnight to the bitterness of veterans.  
  
"Harry?" The tension lay heavy in the air as Ron offered his had to his best man.  
  
"Yeah," Harry said, taking his hand to seal the vow. "I promise".  
  
Ron had visibly relaxed. "Good, now where's that damn chessboard. I'm gonna beat you one last time before my wife," he savoured the word with a smile, "convinces me I should play nice and let you win."  
  
The easy tone of the evening restored they had played until the early hours, ending just in time to dress for the ceremony.  
  
Harry sighed, resting his elbows on his knees and staring out across the loneliness of the Burrow's kitchen.  
  
He'd made his promise, but still had no idea what to do.  
  
Ron was dead.  
  
And Harry had new obligations. Fulfilled was the wizarding world's determined belief that he would defeat the Dark Lord. New responsibilities beckoned, different.  
  
Now, instead of killing Death, he had to live.  
  
It seemed a much more difficult road to tred.  
  
*****  
  
End.  
  
Love it? Hate it? Want me to actually finish it? Then review dammit, review! 


	2. Chapter 2

Aftermath  
  
Disclaimer - Anything you recognise belongs to JK Rowling and various publishing/film-making companies. Anything you don't I'd like to make claim for. Not that I can actually sue or anything.  
  
Authors Notes - This is post-OotP.  
  
******  
  
She wasn't showing yet. She'd thought she would begin to show by now.  
  
But then what was it really? Two months? Nearly three?  
  
No one had asked her yet but she'd noticed Mrs Weasley new found determination about her daughter-in-law's diet and knew that the older woman suspected. After all she was practically an expert on the subject with seven children behind her.  
  
Hermione wondered if that meant she wouldn't need to got to a hospital, wouldn't need to suffer under the administrations of medi-wizards eager to aid in the birth of Harry Potter's friend's child. Maybe Mrs. Weasley could take care of her.  
  
Or her own mother.  
  
She could go to the muggle hospital. Stay at her own home. Avoid all the publicity the renewed national obsession with Harry had wrought.  
  
She could be anonymous once more. Just another pregnant teenager. Maybe the nurses would smirk and gossip about her. Say she was ruining her life. That she should have listened to all the contraceptive lectures that echoed round comprehensives and colleges.  
  
Hermione felt a slight smile tug at the corners of her mouth. What a thought.  
  
What a laugh.  
  
She looked up at the ceiling, unmoving, her hands resting over her stomach protectively.  
  
What if?  
  
And no one knew. Except possibly Mrs Weasley. But Harry didn't know.  
  
Maybe she could just leave. Give up her magic. Rejoin the muggle world and raise her child there. somehow.  
  
Could she give up her magic? Wouldn't that be like giving up Ron? And could she really deny the Weasley's the last link to their youngest son?  
  
Awkwardly she pondered. But no answers were forthcoming, only more new questions. New angles she hadn't considered yet.  
  
She couldn't just walk away. Walking would imply leaving. Walking would imply getting up from this bed - Ron's bed - and leaving.  
  
Ron's bed. Ron's house.  
  
Ron's clock chiming the hours softly out in the hall.  
  
She counts the hours.  
  
One.  
  
Two.  
  
Three.  
  
Three o'clock.  
  
Ah.  
  
He'll be here soon.  
  
******  
  
He's never liked his fame. Never wanted the legacy and responsibility that came with it. He has nightmares about everything he's ever done to earn or prove this fame.  
  
But he has to admit fame has opened doors.  
  
Fame granted Sirius his posthumous pardon.  
  
Fame gave him his apparition license a year early.  
  
Fame got the best doctors, best nurses instantly to his side after the last battle. Fame saved Ginny's life that day. Fame got her straight to St. Mungos on his word.  
  
Fame has its uses.  
  
That he has to admit. But he still wishes the destiny that was his could have fallen on someone else. How many lives would have been saved were it not for his mistakes? He wishes more than anything those lives could be on someone else's head.  
  
But fame has given him this.  
  
This key.  
  
And today, when he knocks softly on Hermione's door and opens without waiting for her answer like he does every day, he actually has something to say.  
  
She doesn't answer at first and he wonders what happened to the girl with all the answers. The girl they could never get to shut up. He can't get used to this silent version of her. He has to suppress the strangely violent urge he has to shake her, wake her, anything to bring back the girl he knew.  
  
But he talks to her anyway, telling her about the cottage. About Dumbledore's offer. About the cliffs and the sea and the seagulls. Has she ever been to that part of the country? He hasn't.  
  
Would she come with him?  
  
Come with him away from all this.  
  
He thinks it would be good for her. For it can't be healthy, just to lie on the bed of your dead husband. It can't be healthy to withdraw that far inside yourself.  
  
But it's selfish to. He can't stand this new version of her. Even her hair seems less than it was, lying dully around her face on the pillow.  
  
He misses the glints in her eyes, the sharpness of her reprimands, the movement and the music that made her Hermione. He hates this. Doesn't know how much more he can take of it. Is worried he might finally crack if she doesn't return soon.  
  
Though he doesn't say that.  
  
He talks about Ron instead. Hesitating over words, memories.  
  
You know he made me promise I'd look after you? I'm doing a very good job letting you waste away like this.  
  
Come with me.  
  
This time it's close to an order and he wonders, abstractly, if he could order her to follow him. Could that be another bonus of fame?  
  
He almost smiles at that thought. As if he could order her to do anything. Make her do anything she doesn't want to do.  
  
And so he talks about the cottage.  
  
The sea.  
  
The garden.  
  
The cliffs.  
  
The isolation.  
  
Off the flue network and with anti-apparition shields. Totally unreachable except by muggle transport.  
  
And she blinks.  
  
Turns her head slightly to look at him.  
  
She hasn't looked at him in months.  
  
And he can't help but smile.  
  
*****  
  
End Part Two.  
  
Should I finish it? Abandon it? Bring Ron back to life? Review and let me know! 


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